“I saw him a couple days ago in the store.”
“Maybe you could keep a lookout for me. My numbers are on the card. You see Mo or anyone suspicious you give me a call.”
“Like I'd almost be a bounty hunter?”
“Almost.”
I jogged back to Lula. “Okay,” I told her, “you can return to the office. I found a replacement. The kid across the street is going to spy for us.”
“Good thing too. This was getting old.”
I followed Lula to the office and called my friend Norma, who worked at the DMV. “Got a name,” I told her. “Need a plate and a car.”
“What's the name?”
“Moses Bedemier.”
“Uncle Mo?”
“That's the one.”
“I'm not giving you information on Uncle Mo!”
I gave her the bull about rescheduling, which was sounding very tired.
Computer keys clicked in the background. “If I find out you harmed a single hair on Uncle Mo's head I'll never give you another plate.”
“I'm not going to hurt him,” I said. “I never hurt anyone.”
“What about that guy you killed last August? And what about when you blew up the funeral home?”
“Are you going to give me this information, or what?”
“He owns a ninety-two Honda Civic. Blue. You got a pencil? I'll read off the plate.”
“Oh boy,” Lula said, peering over my shoulder. “Looks like we got more clues. We gonna look for this car?”
“Yes.” And then we'd look for a key to the apartment. Everyone worries about getting locked out. If you don't have someone in the neighborhood you can trust with your key, you hide it nearby. You carefully place it over the doorjamb, put it in a fake rock next to your foundation or slide it under the doormat.
I wasn't about to do forced entry, but if I found a key . . .
“I haven't had any lunch,” Lula said. “I can't keep working if I don't have lunch.”
I pulled the bag of doughnuts out of my big black leather shoulder bag, and we dug in.
“Things to do. Places to go,” I said minutes later, shaking powdered sugar off my shirt, wishing I'd stopped at two doughnuts.
“I'm going with you,” Lula said. “Only this time I drive. I got a big motherfucker stereo in my car.”
“Just don't drive too fast. I don't t want to get picked up by Officer Gaspick.”
“Uh-oh,” Lula said. “You carrying concealed like Uncle Mo?”
Not at the moment. My .38 Smith & Wesson was at home, sitting on my kitchen counter, in the brown bear cookie jar. Guns scared the hell out of me.
We piled into Lula's red Firebird and headed for Ferris with rap rattling windows in our wake.
“Maybe you should turn it down,” I yelled to Lula after a couple blocks. “I'm getting arrhythmia.”